Chapter 18 : Burning Sands
Chapter 18
Burning Sands
Bogdan
The master of Sabina Rustica, Bogdan, led a hundred men downhill in pursuit of the retreating enemy, who had slain his guards and tried to burn his walls. He had grown suspicious after the eight riders he had sent earlier failed to return, and he had no intention of risking another piecemeal attack against these mysterious foes.
As the manor’s force moved downhill, the narrow ground naturally stretched their line out. The front ranks kept pace with the retreating enemy and reached the glade in the low ground. There, they found four carts, stripped of horses, blocking the path.
The enemy riders passed beyond the carts, which were guarded by a group armed with spears and swords.
But the barricade failed to deter Bogdan’s men. They trusted in their skill and their greater numbers. With a deafening battle roar, they charged straight at the carts.
A fierce battle quickly erupted. Though few in number, the defenders used the carts well as makeshift barricades. Any man trying to climb over was met with brutal resistance, hacked down, pelted with stones, or struck by crossbow bolts.
In the thick of the fighting, Bogdan cleverly sent fresh men into the narrow gap where the enemy riders had slipped through. Soon, the fiercest fighting broke out in the tight space between the two carts. Both sides thrust and raked with spears and polearms, each struggling to gain ground or hold it.
Fresh blood and gore stained the grass. Men screamed in pain, or fell and were seen no more. Casualties began to mount on Bogdan’s side, and many wounded men were dragged to the rear, but that did not shake them. Their morale remained strong. After all, they had a hundred fighting men, a force matched only by the high nobles' troops.
Suddenly, desperate shouts and screams erupted from the rear, prompting many to pause and turn. Bogdan also looked back and saw his rear ranks under attack by a swarm of men who seemed to have come out of nowhere.
“By the Ageless, what is going on?” Bogdan scowled. “What is our rear guard doing?”
One of his aides came running through the line and hastily reported between breaths, “Boss, two dozen men or more have struck our rear!”
“Two dozen...?” one of the men muttered in disbelief.
Still, many turned uneasy and looked to Bogdan for orders.
Bogdan had expected his hundred men to be stretched thin on the narrow hill path. But he had never expected the enemy to attempt such a deception, especially when they did not seem to have the numbers for it.
Indecision breeds disaster, Bogdan thought.
“On me! On me! Boys, now we know where the bastards were hiding. Time to give them a warm welcome!” he shouted, rallying his best men and leading them toward the source of the trouble.
Old Bogdan knew he could still salvage the situation. The enemy was cunning, but they lacked experience.
***
Squire Hugo
A small group of men had been hiding along a secluded trail branching off from the hill path. It had taken them some time to reach it, and there they waited and watched patiently as the slavers’ hundred men charged downhill.
The path linking the manor to the low ground was narrow, and in places no wider than a cart. It forced the slavers’ column into a long, stretched line, snaking down the slope.
As he watched the skirmish unfold, Hugo wiped the sweat from his forehead and noticed Jardin, the alchemist’s assistant, glancing at him.
“Now?” Jardin asked, a man built like a dwarf.
“Do it,” Hugo said.
Jardin puffed a smoke from his clay smoking pipe and grabbed two glass bottles from a nest of hay inside a metal container. He pulled out their corks, jammed waxed linens into them, and lit one using the ember from his pipe. Once it was lit, he looked at Hugo.
“That section over there and there.” Hugo pointed his hand toward the two narrowest sections on the hill path.
Jardin lit the second bottle using the fire from the first bottle, loaded the first one into his leather sling, and then whirled it over his head several times. At the right moment, he released one of the cords and the bottle flew with an astounding accuracy. Before the first one hit the ground, Jardin had loaded and let loose the second one.
The glass bottle crashed without an explosion, but the liquid turned to mist on impact and readily caught fire from the linen wick. It burst into a fireball and the flame spread over a small area.
The fire stunned the slavers’ rear ranks. Several men were caught in it, and panic quickly spread. When the second bottle landed and burst into another fireball, the men hit by it fell back.
Hugo looked over his men. They all seemed ready, eager for the moment. Then he shouted, “For Arvena!”
His men roared and surged into the attack.
Lansius’ plan required Hugo to strike not at the very rear of the slavers’ formation, but at its middle, to cut the rear off from the main body.
The fire and sudden attack had scattered the slavers, but they soon regrouped into several large clusters to defend themselves. Seeing this, Jardin hurled another bottle and successfully kept two of the largest groups from joining together. It was the last support he could offer before melee broke out between the two sides.
Knowing the advantage of surprise would not last, Hugo had placed his best fighters at the front with orders to fight without mercy. Armed with heavy weapons like poleaxes, they hacked and slashed into the slavers’ line, whose men were naturally weaker than the vanguard now engaged at the cart barricade.
Facing slavers who had little chance of ever being highborn, the Arvenians ditched formalities and went for the kill. They were not in the mood to take hostages.
The fighting turned vicious. Patches of grass and the dirt road were smeared with blood and dark gore. Nearby, fire kept spreading through the dry grass.
The slavers’ middle and rear together numbered more than forty men against Hugo’s smaller force, but the narrow ground blunted their advantage in numbers. The gap in skills and resolve caused the slavers to lose men rapidly. It didn’t take long before they began to grow wary of their opponent.
Hugo’s small but hardened party brutally whittled down their numbers and secured a foothold on the hill path. As planned, they then split in two. One group went after the rear section, while the other, led by Hugo, pressed the fight against the middle.
The move stretched their small force even further, yet the slavers were in worse shape. Their ranks were in disarray. Unwilling to die for nothing, many shoved and jostled their own allies to avoid the fighting. Even so, they still had capable men among them.
Amid the close and chaotic melee, a tall man met Hugo’s halberd thrust with a swing of his sword. Steel rang as the blow knocked the thrust aside, and the man lunged at once. But Hugo was already moving. With the axe head of his halberd, he raked across and caught the man’s sword, trying to bind it and wrench it out of line.
He might have managed it, had the man to his right not lost his footing after blocking a savage blow from his own opponent. He stumbled sideways and crashed into Hugo.
The jolt broke the bind and freed the tall man’s sword. Roaring, he drove a thrust straight at Hugo’s chest. It came too fast. Hugo got his halberd across, but only barely. The blade struck his brigandine and dented the metal beneath before glancing off.
Staggered, Hugo took a step back, but the enemy gave him no room to recover and came at once with another cut aimed at his neck. Hugo raised his weapon just in time to block it. Without flinching, he slid one hand higher up the shaft and snapped the halberd across at the man’s arm. The axe head struck the opponent’s left elbow, and the tall man groaned. His gambeson spared him the worst of it, but the pain drove him onto the defensive.
Though out of breath, Hugo kept pressing with his weapon. Then he saw an opening and whipped the halberd upward into the tall man’s face.
“Gahh!” The tall man winced as the halberd’s sharp axe struck his chin and made a bloody gash.
Pain and shock made the tall man lash out blindly with his sword. Hugo sidestepped and answered with a thrust. A jolt ran through the shaft as the halberd’s point punched deep into the man’s abdomen. The tall man coughed hoarsely, then sank to his knees.
Hugo kicked the dying man aside and wrenched his halberd free. He did not pause to celebrate, only fought to catch his breath and recover his stance. At once, the struggle to his right demanded his attention. Too tight for a swing, Hugo stepped in and drove a murderous thrust.
The sudden attack struck cleanly in the stomach. The new opponent dropped his weapon in shock. He stared at the halberd jutting from his belly, his breathing turning ragged as he looked at Hugo with bloodshot eyes. He ground his teeth and pulled the halberd’s tip out.
Hugo pulled his halberd back and readied it again. The Arvenians beside him were ready as well. But the wounded man had already gone pale. He stumbled back several steps, then collapsed, never to rise again.
“Look, they’re running!” one Arvenian shouted, and a wave of emotion quickly swept through their ranks.
Only then did Hugo realize the rest of the enemy had fled, and that he himself had slain the last man standing against them. Though praises rose around him, he felt more humbled than triumphant. The battle had unfolded almost exactly as the clerk, Lansius had predicted.
He looked up the hill path and saw that the fighting there was all but over. The slavers’ middle section had broken off and fled back toward the main body. Farther uphill, Hugo’s split-off group had already routed the rear section, which was now fleeing toward the manor.
The slavers were just local troublemakers. Even strengthened by a number of men-at-arms, they weren’t trained for this kind of battle. They were paid to guard slaves, not to fight a pitched battle.
Amid the cheering, Hugo spat and tasted blood in his mouth, then drank from his waterskin. Afterward, he looked over his men, their faces streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood.
“Don’t celebrate yet. Wash the blood from your hands. Another fight is still coming,” he warned.
The fighters nodded, anticipation already rising in them. They had won the hill path, but the slavers’ main body in the low ground was still intact. Moreover, they could see the slavers main body marching toward them.
Led by Bogdan, master of the manor, and reinforced by their best fighters, the re-formed slavers’ column looked solid and intimidating.
“I believe it’s my turn again?” Jardin asked as he came to Hugo’s side.
Hugo snorted. “Do as you’re told, but nothing extra. We’re a little tight on the purse.”
The response tickled Jardin’s nerve who chuckled. “Most certainly.”
...
The sun was searing hot despite the multitudes of clouds. Bogdan’s men slowed their march just before the hill climb as exhaustion piled up. Bogdan let his men catch their breath before the big push. This was not a race. They needed the stamina to fight.
Made up of mostly experienced men-at-arms, their morale was high. Their earlier failure against the four carts barricade didn’t dampen their spirit. In their eyes, they had forced the main perpetrator out, and now things would be resolved quickly.
Meanwhile, Hugo and his men formed up six across and three ranks deep, fully sealing the hill path. They were exhausted from the last fight, but they had time to catch their breath and now held the high ground.
In numbers, Bogdan still commanded more than fifty men, half of them veterans. Hugo, by contrast, had fewer than twenty. Even so, the Arvenians looked every bit as intimidating as they stood their ground with spears and polearms bristling before them.
Bogdan led the slavers uphill, but suddenly a small object flew into their ranks. It struck, cracked like clay, and burst into flame at the center of the formation. The blast set several men’s cloth armor alight and sent fear through the line.
“Push forward! Let nothing stop you!” Bogdan shouted. Whatever the cost, he needed the assault to land quickly.
Another clay object flew into their front and shattered, fire blazing just like the first one. However, this time, they were ready and only two got caught in the fire. Both fires fizzled surprisingly quickly and left a plume of white smoke.
Bogdan capitalized on the enemy’s apparent failure. “See those men in front of you? They’re nothing but thieves and robbers. Your wealth, your money, they’re going to take it all from you! Are you going to let that happen?”
Bogdan’s words pumped his men, and they clamored for battle.
“So, what are you waiting for? Make them pay!” Bogdan raised his sword.
Emboldened, the men yelled their battle cry. Their distance was less than two hundred paces away from Hugo’s men.
“Onward!” one of the lieutenants shouted, but a wave of screaming from their ranks alerted everybody.
They looked around and saw panicked men trampled left and right to get away from the white smoke. The smoke was clearly unusual. They noticed everywhere the white smoke passed, men immediately suffered.
The men avoided the smoke like a plague and left the formation in shambles. Indeed, it was hazardous. It contained a fine white powdery substance that reacted with moisture and caused burns.
A person engulfed in the white smoke would feel their eyes, nostrils, and throat burning. It blinded them and filled them with immense pain. Even breathing felt like swallowing a burning charcoal. Many scrambled toward the large pond to douse themselves from the pain.
The white smoke had only caught less than a dozen, but it shook the column. Bogdan had shouted at the top of his lungs to keep control. Just then, ten horsemen and a score of Arvenians appeared behind them.
With a wall of spears in front, the threat of more white smoke, and now, cavalry appeared at their back; the slavers were beginning to panic.
“This is madness. We can’t win, not like this,” one rambled.
“There’s no hope. We should run and meet back at the manor!” Another suggested.
Many nodded and hurriedly fled as the horsemen advanced closer.
Watching his men fleeing, Bogdan eerily kept his calm. Instead of running, he dismounted and gave the horse to his aide. He was too old to lick boots. Moreover, he had no child of his own and no real love for his concubines.
Together with twenty like-minded allies, old Bogdan re-formed the column, and they readied themselves against the cavalry charge.
...
Anci and his riders returned to the field after a brief rest. Armed with lances, they formed into a wedge. Instead of breaking into a gallop, Anci led them forward at a trot so they could keep their aim. Riding toward a column of men already locked in battle, with smoke, screams, and shouting all around, the horses resisted at first. But the riders kept their nerve and held their discipline, and soon the beasts surged straight into the slavers’ line.
Men and horses crashed together. In an instant, many went down under the lances, while the warhorses tore through the line, trampling and crushing whoever stood in their way. It was hard to tell how many died, but the surviving slavers broke away in panic and fled.
Anci wheeled his riders and gave chase, determined not to let the enemy regroup.
While Anci rode on in brutal pursuit, Lansius arrived at the scene. Thomas, Calub, and Felis were at his side, along with eleven men, almost all of them wounded. They had spent themselves just to keep marching and remain on their feet.
Lansius looked around with deep concern on his face. Many took it as reading the battle, but in reality, the scattered corpses, blood, and gore mortified him. He took a sharp breath, but the distinct smell of blood made him nauseous.
Calub took notice. “You okay?”
“I’ll be okay when this is over,” Lansius replied.
The white smoke had dissipated from the field. As Calub had warned them, the area wasn’t ideal. There was a strong wind coming from the hillside, and thus the smoke could only last for a minute or two.
Still, it got the job done. Without the burning sands, their casualties would be higher. An evenly matched battle was the worst in terms of casualties. They were lucky that Felis brought the alchemist, who spared them from that fate.
Calub and Felis, in turn, were grateful for Lansius’s uncanny understanding of the alchemist’s tools and how he could integrate them into his plan.
Old Thomas stepped closer and said, “I’ll take some men and round up the survivors.”
Lansius nodded. “Try to link up with Hugo.”
“Aye, will do.” Thomas was about to turn away when Lansius caught the old man by the arm.
“Be very careful . . . no ransom is worth our men’s lives,” Lansius said.
Thomas gave a warm, fatherly look. “We’ll avoid danger as much as we can.”
With just four men, Thomas went to scour the battlefield. The remaining seven lost what little composure they had left and dropped to the ground. Fortunately for them, their role as reserves wasn't required.
“Don’t drink if you have deep wounds. Dab some water on your lips to keep them from drying.” As he watched the men, Lansius was reminded of the few he had left behind at the four-cart barricade.
He glanced at the bright sky and drew a deep breath, trying to drive away the feeling that he was responsible for the dead.
I did my best. Nobody should blame me.
But the plan wasn’t flawless. Originally, two of the carts should have been burned to keep the attackers away. However, the small amount of fire bottles had failed to burn the carts in time. Thus, their severely limited number had borne the brunt of the attack.
Lansius knew that was his mistake. He had miscalculated and made Calub assign most of his stock, including both of the burning sands, to Jardin.
If only Calub carried one . . .
As Lansius had witnessed, even a single bottle of burning sands was powerful. If it had been used on the barricade, it would certainly stopped the attack on the carts and saved many.
“Tsk.” Lansius chastised himself. He had downplayed the technical side and incorrectly assumed that the dry wood would catch fire easily. However, the carts’ thick wood proved to withstand the small douse of benzene-like liquid from the fire bottles.
“Good job, Lans.”
The sudden praise took him by surprise. Lansius turned around and saw Felis. Her smile and blue piercing eyes nearly made him blush. He was weak against such a beauty.
Noticing that he was not reacting as she had expected, Felis added heartily, “Hey, be proud. This is a significant accomplishment.”
Lansius still felt guilty, but the verbal pat on the back felt so good that he managed a stiff smile.
Maybe this isn’t all bad.
Felis tilted her head at Lansius’s lack of reaction. “You looked concerned. Is something wrong?”
“Nah, it’s just that . . . it’s time to finish the job.”
***